The songs of master stranglers ~ Ren

The parlour gents and drunken femmes drink away
the contents of bodies blown along the broken down tongues of Balkan roads
into the mountains dwarfing all vehicles and immerse the bright
undying scars in sun-bled valleys
healing the force of wars in small offices
forgetting,

Unless the heads of myriad jokers scream
beyond the logic of faith and blood
and smile inside the microscopic din of civil service banquets
knowing only the miasma of hangovers inside
old corridors,

Then us drunks laugh at the sober drunks
these wild incapable dunes that cannot
spring or re-arrange the network
since there is only a twitch in the waltz
that rises none-the-less and grows
infinite ways.